Eyes That See
by KyhCad33
Summary: You bear a symbol meant to be kept secret—the mark of the Oracle. But Fate refuses to let you hide. As your seventeenth birthday approaches, a twist of political upheaval brings about the change that your prophecies have been warning you about. Be careful with whom you trust; not everything that you See explains everything that will occur... [fantasy!au, not a Reader fic]
1. Prologue

**A/N:** I'll admit; this story's going to be...weird. But a friend of mine said to post it anyways, so here we are?

This is experimental, with jumping perspectives and tenses, interconnecting subplots, and genres I haven't played with before. It's, erm, kind of like a writing exercise where I don't have to worry about quality.

That being said, I'll be editing this back and forth. There might be major plotholes as we go along, but I'll try my best to answer them. Any and all constructive criticism is welcome! I'll probably need someone to whip this fanfic into shape, haha.

 **Title:** Eyes That See  
 **Rating:** T  
 **Warning:** fantasy!AU, second-person POV, descriptions of violence or wounds, mostly unbeta'd, nyotalia, will add more as they pop up  
 **Genre/s:** Fantasy, Romance, Adventure, Action  
 **Pairing/s:** NorMona, possible others  
 **Summary:** You bear a symbol meant to be kept secret—the mark of the Oracle. But Fate refuses to let you hide. As your seventeenth birthday approaches, a twist of political upheaval brings about the change that your prophecies have been warning you about. Be careful with whom you trust; not everything that you See explains everything that will occur... [fantasy!AU, not a Reader fic]  
 **Inspiration/s:** Long story short, I was feeling nostalgic about Hetalia x Reader fics. Let's just say things didn't go as planned;;

I hope you enjoy!

 **I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

When you were born, your father cried instead of you. You weren't breathing, heart and body still, even when he cradled you close and shared his warmth.

You were tiny, fitting snugly into both his hands. Fragile, like the ceramics he made. Vulnerable, like a flower blooming in winter. You were the first child your mother had carried to a full term, so he wept when he heard nothing beating in your chest, kissed your forehead as his tears hit your skin.

Then you wailed.

He almost dropped you as a hot light burned on your hand, a candle within the darkness of their house. The beating wind from outside howled and your father and mother waited in tense silence. But it gave him hope, for surely the noise meant something? You were alive! It was a sign of hope—

When the light disappeared, your parents stared at your hand with horror.

"No," your mother croaked, wiping her hair away from her sweaty face. She laughed. "No, no, no. Francis, it must be the exhaustion." Her face crumpled. "But somehow, I see—my child can't— _no_."

As if you could sense her distress, you wailed harder. Your father clutched your hand, bringing it to his eyes to inspect it. On your clear skin was an imprinted birthmark, a perfect sphere dipped in red ink.

The mark of the harbinger.

 _Oracle_.

He dropped it like he touched fire.

"No," your mother repeated. " _No_ , not our child."

And again, your father cried.


	2. Verdant

**A/N:** Again, feel free to share any thoughts. _Even_ if you don't like it; just be sure to tell me why :D

* * *

"Mama, may I go to town with you and Papa today?"

You say it in the sweetest voice you can muster, eyelashes batting in innocence. With a wide, doe-eyed stare and an angelic face, many would have swooned and accepted your request, no questions asked.

Your mother, on the other hand, simply raises her eyebrows as she gets ready to leave. She has a scarf, a thin shawl, and a jacket for the cold weather. "Have you finished your chores?" she asks.

You go through a mental checklist: the house was cleaned, the yard was tended, the laundry was washed, and the herbs were stocked. All in perfect order and organization. But of course it'd be—you spent the entire morning making sure everything was right. You nod. "Yes."

"We have an order for migraines—"

"Feverfew or butterbur," you recite. "Done."

"—and muscle pain—"

"Wintergreen."

"—and sore throats—"

"Agrimony. Fennel."

She looks at you appraisingly, pride evident in her eyes. You smile back. You aren't the daughter of a herbalist for nothing, you know.

"Alright," your mother concedes. "Camille, you can come with us if you manage to convince your father."

Your heart drops. "That is _not_ fair."

* * *

As expected, he shoots you down.

"Of course not," he says in monotone, hands on a clay bowl. He isn't even looking at you as he speaks.

"But, Papa—"

"No means no. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

Seeing your dejected look, he sighs and pats the space beside him. You fold your long skirt under you as you sit down, watching him continue to shape up the ceramic. The whirring of the pottery wheel echoes in the silence.

"It'll be your birthday soon," your father muses, after a long pause. "So my daughter's finally going to be seventeen."

A tingle of excitement courses through your veins. Maybe you could coax him into letting you choose your present in town today? "Yes...?"

He seems to know what you were thinking because he laughs. "Harbingers. Always looking for trouble, aren't they?"

A flinch. On habit, you pick on your gloved hands. "Not fair," you mumble. "Not my fault. I didn't choose this life."

He softens. "Of course not. Did you think I chose to be born male?"

"Not a good comparison." But you try to imagine him with long hair, a feminine body, stereotypical woman features. Incredulous, you wipe it away from your head with a shudder. "I can't picture you as anything else."

"Same with you, Sunshine. But unlike me being a man, you need special precautions."

Wiggling your fingers in front of his face, you grin and say, "Been there, done that."

"Can't have episodes around others either. And why do your mother and I suddenly have a daughter we've never mentioned before?"

"I could always pretend to be blind." you point out. "Wrap bandages around my eyes or something. Say I had a horrible accident that's plagued me nightmares for years. Then I'd have to cling to either you or Mama all trip long _and_ it'd explain why I've never made an appearance."

"You thought about this a lot, didn't you?" He smiles wryly. "Shame you get your stubborn streak from me."

You try another tactic. Your batting eyelashes won't sway your father, but you've learned that he's got a weakness for 'his darling daughter's whining.' Eyes wide and mouth pouting, you ask, "Papa, will anything make you say yes?"

"Have you ever had a vision that showed otherwise?"

His roundabout refusals cause you to groan. Glaring at the bowl, the whirling motion of the wheel helps calm you down. You were never one for the craft—your mother always made you her little helper—but your father made the most wonderful pieces. As a kid, you'd watch him make vases and cups and dishes for hours upon end. There was always something mesmerizing about the way he could create such beautiful things out of a lump of mud.

And your visions... They started the same way. A blur, like the world was spinning right before your eyes. Dizzying but electrifying. Exciting, even. But the worst part was how they made your eyes bleed—jet black tears that rolled down your cheeks. They always hurt, heat searing in your eyes as a multitude of images flashed in the span of seconds. At first, they made you scream. Now, you've learned to rein the pain in.

Pottery made you hate them less, made you think they couldn't be such ugly experiences. You hated the fact that they could never let you have a normal life, but you never shunned them away.

Not anymore.

Which is why your next words are hard to say. You run your tongue over your lips. "Papa, I'm almost seventeen."

"I know," he says.

"I'll be leaving soon."

"I know," he repeats. "That's why I'm scared."

You snap your eyes to his. He doesn't look at you.

"Did it tell you why you're leaving?" he asks quietly.

You shake your head. "But it tells me that you and Mama will be safe. That, I know for sure."

He purses his mouth. "I don't want you to leave. It's dangerous."

"I know."

"So why would you want to leave earlier than intended?"

Startled, you lean away. Guilt gnaws on you but it's an earnest question. You decide to give an earnest answer. "I'm just curious, about what it's like over...there." You rack your brain for an explanation. "Your stories sound so happy and—and full of life. I wanted to see why."

He nods.

You take a deep breath and continue. "But you're right. It's scary. I don't want to _meet_ anyone before...before..." The pottery clears your head. "Maybe I just want to see it from a distance. Maybe that's all I want."

He nods again, solemn, and says, "Then why don't you let me be selfish for a few more days and keep you all to myself?" It sounds like a joke but you can hear his voice cracking, and the way he patches it fixed.

You smile, bumping your shoulder against his. "Fine. Just... I'll always be Papa's little girl, right?"

He smiles back and lets the wheel answer you.

* * *

Your parents said the worst vision you had was your first.

Your family was having dinner. Your mother spoke of a patient she had earlier in the day, and you and your father were listening intently. You were only three then, when the motions happened. The table spun into your village. It felt like a hot fire, a strong forge. As if your flesh was iron-branded a hundred times over. As if you really were going to be blind.

You Saw a flash of red. The temperatures were warm. Inside a kiln, so hot, so hot—

Slash, metal. Blades. Masked men. They carried torches across the streets as they laughed towards the night sky.

There was yelling, so much yelling. Pleading. Crying. Women sobbed, children screamed, husbands tried to fight back only to be chopped down...

Houses were charred and ransacked. Bodies were mutilated and abused. Raw flesh smoked with the ashes. It smelled like death and murder.

You clawed your face as if you were there yourself, begging it to stop, begging anyone—anything—to stop it. All the while, your parents couldn't do a thing. Your mother hugged you to stop your scratching. Your father barred the doors and windows so the neighbours wouldn't hear. Those that did were told it was a nightmare. "You know how kids are," your father had said.

When it was done, you couldn't stop weeping. There were so many lives to be lost, homes to be ruined. These were livelihoods and families of people you knew.

And you couldn't do a single thing but throw up.

That night, you couldn't sleep, even when you shared a bed with your parents.

The next morning, your family said their goodbyes and left, travelling a month before you chose to live at the outskirts of a small town, in the woods of where you currently lived. Self-ostracism, at your own request, because you couldn't bear to See and lead anyone else you knew to their deaths.

Another month after that, your father heard news of a bandit attack from where you once lived.

For weeks, the three of you sat in vigil. You spent your days creating makeshift graves.

* * *

Grass chains are a challenge. The blades are pesky thin and they rip easily. At least they keep you busy.

"Child Me was stupid," you mutter, as you prop your elbows on the table. Stupid grass won't cooperate. "Why did I ever have the bright idea of living in the middle of nowhere?"

Advantages: peace, quiet, and lots of alone time. Disadvantages: peace, quiet, and _lots_ of alone time.

You sigh. For over a decade, your only friends have been your mother and father. You don't even know what people your age do or look like. You're ninety-nine percent positive you'll end up spewing crazy nonsense if you ever get alone a stranger. And it's not like you can run away from them either; all this time for yourself, and you've never really built up your energy.

But people skills and stamina aside, you guess you're pretty good with your hands. A good memory to boot, if you can remember all those herbs and their uses. Maybe even some dexterity? You can't exactly be clumsy if you're making medicine, no?

Deep in your thoughts, you jump at a sudden clatter. Wary, you realize it's outside the house. Might just be an animal. Rabbits come here sometimes and knock over the gardening tools.

You continue with your business.

 _Clack_.

Almost done that knot...

 _Clack_.

...Is it getting louder?

 _Clack_.

Your hands work fast to stop themselves from shaking.

 _CLACK_.

Screeching your chair back, you run to the kitchen and rummage through the drawers. When you find a pan, you clutch it tight. The noise pounds at the entrance.

 _CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK._

As you draw near, you whisper, "Whatever you are, I hope you're weaker than me."

Slowly but surely, you take a deep breath. Then you fling the door open, shout a war cry, and raise the pan to strike—

You freeze.

In front of you is a snow white bear, its sheen gleaming under the afternoon sun. Bears, you've seen plenty of, but this colour was completely unheard of. You're almost mesmerized, but that's not what startles you the most.

On its back, bleeding on its fur, is a cloaked girl who can't be older than you. Her skin is ghostly pale. Her hair looks like jagged straw. She seems familiar, though you don't quite know her.

When she raises her head, you see green eyes.

Your own widen.

You're about to lower the pan when the bear snarls and pounces at you.

* * *

 **End note(s):** Camille = Monaco


	3. Covert

**A/N:** Updates aren't always going to be this fast, but I'll shoot stuff out until the story gets rolling :)

Hope you like it!

* * *

Panic.

The whole town is in disarray, people scuttling out of the way as soldiers scour the town. They're looking for something—some _one_ —and they aren't going to stop until they find them.

A lone hooded figure weaves through the smaller streets, looking over their shoulder every so often in fear that they were being followed. Ragged pants echo with their footsteps, and they slide into the shadows as the Royal horses speed by.

"Over there!" a soldier bellows. "Don't let them get away!"

They count to ten, waiting in silence, before speeding off again.

Running until the outskirts, made empty in the wake of the soldiers, they look around for any signs of life. With a shock, a hand wraps around their mouth and waist. They struggle against their captor, about to bite down their fingers, but stop when they hear a wild yet familiar voice:

"Peter, it's me."

Almost immediately, the figure relaxes. The hold on him loosens, and he twirls around to face his friend. Taking off the hood, it reveals a haggard-looking boy, with cuts and bruises on his face. But his eyes are resolute and stormy; a testament to the adrenaline in his veins.

"We've got trouble," Peter says.

The man swears. "Of course we do. How bad?"

"They disappeared with the rest of the royals."

Again, the man swears. "At least we got a lead. Where's everyone else?"

"I...I don't know. I think Lukas followed the targets."

"By himself?"

Peter nods.

"Tch. I hope he knows what he's doing." He grabs Peter's hand and tugs him along. "Come on, we'll have to catch up."

"What? B-but the others—"

"Kid, the others will be _fine_. Don't you know who they are? For now, we've gotta pick up the pace before we lose our mark."

Peter's dubious, both in the reassurance and the claim. "You really think we're going to find anyone in this chaos?" he asks.

The man rolls his eyes and smirks. "Oh come on. If I can't, who else will?"

* * *

Reflexively, you scream and swing the pan. By some sheer luck, it hits the bear square at the snout, and it roars to its full height. You scramble back. The girl clings tight and shouts, "no! calm down!" but it doesn't seem to have any effect.

You scan around the house for an escape route, not feeling like getting mauled today. For one, the windows are looking mighty fine right now. You could probably break them open with the pan. Probably.

But you know who the girl is. You know she means no harm. Just, what are you supposed to do? Say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I think I've been expecting you, but that bear of yours scared me and now I have to pretend I'm about to be killed in my own home—by the way, would you like to come in and have a talk?"

Yeah right.

This is awkward.

Shaking your head, you stand up and brush your skirt. The girl's speaking in a different language, one you're not sure either the bear or you understand. She says something that sounds awfully a lot like "stop!" and you hear a name that chills your blood. Or, well, you know it's a name. If you didn't know better, you'd think it was just a word.

 _Lud_. You hear it again.

Oh dear. Really? This happens today? You're glad your mother made you restock the medicine pile.

Leaving them to their own devices, you pack up everything you need. Clematis will work as a base. Yarrow, then comfrey to close the wound. Bandages to keep it clean. Might as well bring some water too.

You think.

Then you stuff a bit of everything. Add in a needle and some thread. You've always been good at sewing.

When your bag is filled to the brim, you head back to the entrance, and you're relieved they haven't trashed the place. The white bear's subdued now, settling to prowl and snarl at everything. The girl is exasperated. When she sees you come forward, willingly, she's confused but remembers why she's here.

She says, "I am sorry for the disturbance, but our friend needs help. He's hurt. He cannot move. Please, we mean no harm."

You stare at her arm, blood dripping from an open cut.

She shakes her head. "It's but a flesh wound. My friend needs more attention."

The bear glares at you, guttural noises at the back of its throat. It eyes your things suspiciously, as if wondering when you managed to throw that together. You shrug. With a shake of its head ('no matter,' it must be thinking), it snaps and claws its paw in the air. Is that an order to follow them?

This Lud fellow is well-loved, it seems. You muse at the irony.

"So you will come?" the girl presses, pleading.

You nod.

Like a dam, it causes her expression to crash. Tears start flooding from her eyes. "Thank you! Oh, thank you. I cannot thank you enough." Her relief is palpable as she bows her head in gratitude. "But please, I ask that you keep your silence. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but—"

"Show me where he is." You grow resolute.

* * *

Sometimes, you Saw things in first-person, which meant you were part of the vision. You always thought that was weird, to have predetermined lines and actions, like you didn't have free will or you were following a script.

But they worked because they felt natural. Instinctive. Yes, you had a habit of walking with your toes pointed inward, and yes, you pushed your glasses up at the slightest of slips. So they were never so out-of-character. Fate made sure things always worked its way.

One such vision had a man teaching you how to treat poison, saying you had to stop being so shy unless you wanted be responsible for his death. You flustered out an "I know what to do!" and he snorted as you began to treat it.

It was quiet. The only sounds were the hisses he made when you applied pressure or salves. By the time you were done, there were impressed crescents on the palm of one hand. His knuckles were pale. They were shaking.

Tentative, you laid your fingers on his and sat in silence before he thanked you. Then you jerked away, nodded, and ran.

You hated first-person visions because you never Saw the big picture; what was that man feeling? what was he doing? was there anyone else watching the two of you? It was like having your own thoughts being projected without the full context: uncomfortable and disconcerting, and it made you curious for more.

 _Very_ curious, because Vision You was certainly blushing the whole time.

At least you remembered his face. The moment you were to meet, you were going to hit him for reducing you into a spluttering mess.

* * *

To say Lud's in bad shape is an understatement. They had managed to lay him at a hidden clearing, a better idea than resting him in the crowded woods, but he looks like _he_ was attacked by the bear. You know that isn't the case yet you play along. The all-seeing has to turn a blind eye sometimes.

You watch the other two closely, hoping your wariness translates well. The girl widens her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says. "It's complicated. We were being chased by someone. We do not know who."

 _You_ do. But you accept the explanation; the truth's a bit hard to chew. Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand. Like half-dead men.

With practised hands (well, you've practised on your father, silly accidents and all), you tear at his clothes. There's a slash on his stomach—from a sword, you assume—his leg is broken, and an arrow protrudes from his side. The sword cut is shallow, and it's coagulated a fair bit. Not a priority. The bit of bone-showing is a concern, but the area around the arrow is horrible. The skin is red, like a rash. Lud's clearly unconscious, but his forehead burns with a high fever. Muscles tremble in his sleep.

"Poison," you murmur, genuinely surprised. The vision had cut off before you noticed. "How long ago?"

The girl is curt. "A while. We had no antidotes. I think we lost them during the chase."

"Robbers." It's an off-handed comment, but she nods. You shrug. "They do crass jobs. Thankfully, I have just the thing." At least you know what you're doing. Sort of. You've been Shown how it works, so it shouldn't be so hard, right? Right.

A bit of a cheat, you'll admit. Sometimes, you like the idea of perfect foresight.

Crouching down beside Lud, you work thouroughly but carefully, making sure you're doing it right. Clean the wound, remove the poison, stitch it up, and there—that looks good. The stitching is straight and even. His skin looks healthier. His breathing's still a bit shallow, but he should be fine with some sleep.

Hopefully. Nerves are getting to you, first time and all. It'd be nice—nice?—if you could See him alive by next winter.

As you finish with the rest of his injuries (wrapping him up in bandages, making a crude splint for his leg), the girl inspects Lud from head to toe. Her voice trembles. "He will survive, won't he?"

"Perhaps," you tell her truthfully. "Let him wake up on his own time." Surveying the area, you note how far you are from your house. "We'll have to bring him back on a cot. Find two long sticks and a cloth to lay him down?"

"My cloak should work."

"Ah, yes."

As she hands it over, the bear thunders towards a nearby tree, swiping its jaw to break a branch. Then it does it again. You blink. It cocks his head, smug, and you pat its head to soothe its ego.

"Good boy?" you say.

A growl. It gnashes its teeth before dropping the branches. They're covered in saliva. You cringe.

The girl laughs. "Let me help you with that. The bear has more pride than man, you see." She picks up one of the branches, tying one end of her cloak around it. A shadow falls over her face. "Come, let us hurry. I don't feel safe staying out here for long."

* * *

This has to be the most painful cup of tea you've had in your life.

Past the whole 'please don't freeze up and please save someone from death' situation, you still have no idea what to say. In your house is a girl who's been a literal vision, a snowy bear that probably hates your guts, and a shirtless guy who is now sleeping on your bed. What do you even talk about? Outlining how lucky some people are for getting out of near-death experiences isn't exactly 'first conversation' material.

Curse your lack of social interaction.

To mask your discomfort, you keep drinking. And drinking. You refill your glass for the fourth time since you sat down. Maybe you can excuse yourself to think things through? Your parents—oh no, _your parents_. What will they think? They'll have a heart attack when they see an oversized animal lounging on their favourite rug.

Goodness, today just isn't your day. You take another sip of tea.

"I suppose you want an explanation?" the girl starts. She looks dejected, as if resigning to a fate she didn't choose for herself. A pang of pity hits your chest. "Of why we are here, for one?"

You choose your words slowly. "Actually, of who you are." Your eyes stray to the direction of your room. "I don't think I caught your names."

The bear lifts its head to stare at you.

The girl blinks. "Oh...? Oh, of course. We haven't been properly introduced." Nodding to herself, she smiles. "My name is Lili. This is Kuma. We call our friend Lud—that is short for Ludirk—but he hates it when we do. Please call him Dirk."

That is a _great_ cover-up. Honestly. It makes you want to have a fake name yourself. But alas, there's no need to. "I'm Camille."

"Camille. I see. We cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Miss Camille." She stares into her cup. "I am sorry for taking up space in your home."

"It's fine! It's fine. No harm done, really."

Lili looks around, drawing her brows together. "Do you live alone, Miss Camille? We were surprised to see you so near the woods. Not to say we do not appreciate it—perhaps we would have been too late if we had to fetch someone from town—but it's all rather interesting. No, Kuma?"

It bares its teeth in agreement.

Story time. Yay.

You decide it's better to be honest; less holes to manage, and no trouble in sounding right. "I live with my parents. They work in town, and I stay behind to look after our house." Well, half-truth. It's not a secret if you can't keep it shut, you know? "My mother thinks it's nice to be near the herbs—she's a herbalist."

"You have a kiln," Lili presses. "Do you forge?"

"Pottery! My father, he does that. When we moved to this house, there was already a kiln, so Papa decided to switch crafts. He used to be a baker, actually. But it's hard to be a baker without your own bakery. And because of—no, yes. That's it." Your tongue's getting tied. You take a sip. "I help my mother with her medicine," you finish quietly.

"That sounds lovely." Lili's wistful, snapping out of it with a shake of her head. "I hope Lud makes a speedy recovery. We wouldn't wish to impose on the three of you."

"No, no. As I said, it's fine—"

Her face glints. "Don't forget the dangers, Miss Camille. If the robbers catch wind of us being here, who knows what will happen? I would hate to think what could happen to you or your family."

You're about to argue, but then you realize why Lili would think that way. You'd do the same; overthink the possibilities and prepare for the worst. Seer abilities, but you're still a worrywart. It's kind of funny.

So you mull it over, lighting up when you figure it out. "How about you think of it this way?" you tell her. "You and Kuma can stay until, um, _Ludirk_ gets better—which will take a while, I'm sure—and you can protect us from the bandits if—" And to yourself, you stress the word 'if.' "—they come."

Lili and Kuma exchange looks, the latter raising its shoulders to a shrug. Lili thinks for a moment. Then she sets her jaw and nods.

"Alright," she says. "We truly are indebted to you, Miss Camille."

As you nod back, you remember the real reason why you don't interact with people: you have handy dandy come-at-random visions that will garner an awed-but-will-run-away-screaming reaction.

Drats.

Is that a good topic for a second conversation?

* * *

 **End note(s):** Lili = Liechtenstein


	4. Expectations

**A/N:** Enjoy another Camille-centric chapter! I hope the pacing doesn't feel too slow :)

Today will be a double update, so another chapter will come out in a few hours. You can look forward to that!

Lastly, thanks to all the favourites, follows, and reviews. You guys are _awesome_.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, your parents do not, in fact, kill you.

But if you file incredulity mixed with suspicion under 'looks that kill,' then you have a problem.

At the moment, the door's mid-swung and your parents are slack-jawed with bulging eyes. The groceries drop to the ground. Lili has a small smile on her face. The four of you (plus one animal) stare at each other in tense quiet, and you think you're going to choke on your nerves when your mother introduces herself.

"Hello. Welcome to our house," she says, shaking Lili's hand. Your father glares at Kuma, who's shedding fur on the floor. "I'm Jeanne. My husband's name is Francis."

"And I'm Lili," she replies. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. The bear is Kuma. I apologize for any inconveniences, but we have an injured friend named Ludirk."

Your mother covers her mouth. "Oh my. Is he okay?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Thanks to your daughter, he is."

She looks at you, half-delighted, half-apprehensive. "Why," she intones, "that's wonderful news. Good work, darling."

Your father coughs. Your mother looks at him. He stares longer. She holds his gaze. He raises a brow. She mirrors. Then she turns to Lili and says, "Perhaps you could show me where this Ludirk is, and I could see if everything's been administered properly?"

Uh oh.

Your mother all but drags Lili out of the room, who throws you back a look of pity. You smile after her weakly. At least you can appreciate the thought.

"Camille," your father starts. You have the grace to look ashamed. His tone isn't one of disappointment—at least, not at you; which only makes it worse, to be honest. Your talk from earlier pops into mind. "Is that...?"

His question doesn't need to be finished. Your eyes drag to Kuma. "Yes, Papa," you say. "But not now."

He seems to understand the double meaning, because he purses his lips at the bear. He considers saying something, but sighs instead. "Tell your mother I'll make dinner."

"Papa..."

A shake of his head. "I know. It's just... We'll talk later, alright?" And then he leaves before you can get another word edgewise.

Your shoulders slump. Kuma whines, soft and questioning. You run your fingers between its ears. "Papa's not angry," you whisper. "Just sad."

It growls. Butting its nose on your arm, it reaches up to pat your leg comfortingly. That's what you think it's doing, anyway. It's all kind of awkward, and you don't speak bear. So instead, you laugh. "I think you're smart. You are, aren't you, Kuma?"

Its eyes gleam like it has a secret to tell.

* * *

There was a time in your life when you thought that visions didn't need to be 'important.' Maybe one day you'd See your father bake a new recipe, or you'd See the first snow of the year. Nothing violent. Nothing horrifying. You didn't have an appetite for those visions.

You were proven wrong each and every time; it was death upon death, injury upon injury. The amount of bad in the lands outweighed the good. When you were a child, you grew more cynical and world-weary. You faced the harsh realities of life quicker than most.

Then it happened: your Saw first friend.

It wasn't human, mind you. It was a bird—a small canary. You were foraging in what looked like early spring, just as the weather was getting warmer, and you found it hopping awkwardly around a tree, trying to fly away.

It couldn't. It had a broken wing. But it kept trying and trying and trying. Your voice was full of wonder at its solid determination.

You placed it in your basket, took it home, and tended to it until it got better. By the time it could flap both its wings, the trees were flushed with green and the flowers had already bloomed. You waved goodbye as it chirped and flew into the distance.

You never gave it a name—your father said it would be bad to get too attached—but in your head, you called it Monami. My friend.

You were twelve at the time. It was summer.

And you were never nearly as excited for the new year to come.

* * *

"So, Lili," your father starts, and you pick on your food anxiously, "what brings you to these parts? I couldn't help but notice your accent; are you from Deutschland?"

She smiles to herself. "Yes. Ludirk and I are. We were travelling south to meet with our families. We haven't seen them in a while, so we're all very excited." Her face darkens, dropping her gaze to her plate. "But en-route, there were robbers. They mugged us and stole our things. Something went awry, and Ludirk got very, very hurt. As you'd know."

He nods. A moment for sympathy. Then he opens his mouth to speak again. You cut him off. "Where did you get Kuma?" you ask. It snores on the floor. "I've never seen a bear with white fur before."

"Ah, that is because he comes from the north. We found him as a cub and took him in. Merchant business," Lili adds, a furtive glance to your father, "if you must know."

"I see!" Your mother nods in thought. "That must be why you speak our language so well. I was wondering why you seemed so fluent, despite being a foreigner..."

Lili brightens. "Yes, Ma'am. You learn a lot as you travel."

Your father mutters something under his breath. Your mother jabs him in the ribs. Looking a bit put out, he asks, "And how are things back at home? We haven't heard much since your king's death, bless his soul. Has the prince taken the throne yet?"

Your mother thinks it's a harmless question, just as inquisitive in the answer. Lili plasters doubt on her face. It's subtle, but you note the way her muscles tense. "The prince was to be coronated a few days ago," she says, "but I...I heard that he was killed."

Gasps echo from the table. Your mother's spoon clatters into her soup. Your father loses his stride. You hide your expression, uneasy, as memories of that vision come to mind.

...Ugh, you're going to be sick.

"I do not know much," Lili continues, voice barely above a whisper. "We left the kingdom as soon as possible, wanting to get out before the unrest started. I—I suppose it caught up to us near the border." She lowers her eyes. "Prince Gilbert would have been a fine king. He was—was very..." Sigh. "I'm sorry. But I don't know how this could have happened."

The silence is unbearable.

After a while, your mother puts chamomile into your cups and says, "Drink up. It'll make you feel better."

You all nod.

And as one, the four of you down it until every last drop is gone.

* * *

As you clean up the table alone—your parents are with your guests, making sure they have everything they need for a comfortable stay—you contemplate on the current possibilities. For one, with Lud sleeping in your room (and by extension, Lili and Kuma), you'll have to get rid of some personal things from prying eyes. Or in other words, any incriminating evidence about you being an Oracle.

But, well, that'd just be your papers. You have journals under your bed that outline all the prophecies you've had ever since you could read and write. You've even made a timeline to piece things together; now that the coronation disaster's happened, a few of your visions should start falling into place.

Like so:

 **1)** Prince Gilbert is victim to an assassination attempt. Deutschland falls into chaos until some guy takes control to calm the situation down. It works, and everything is peaceful for a while.  
 **2)** Lili, Ludirk, and Kuma arrive at your house about a week later. They all have fake names and identities, technically, but you still don't know what Kuma's deal is.  
 **3)** Your mystery man comes soon after. Together, the five of you leave home and go westward into uncharted waters.  
 **4)** At the same time, other groups have their own agendas. One has a boy named Peter and a man named—

"Camille?"

Your hands fumble. The plates almost drop. Turning around, you see your mother by the doorframe, and you sigh in relief. "Mama, you scared me."

Her mouth tugs up. "Sorry, darling. Too deep in thought?"

You nod. She smiles wider. When she shows you what she has in her hands, your face lights up. "Oh," you say, bounding over to take your journals, "when one speaks of the wolf..."

"...one sees its tail. Seems like I stole your idea?"

"Yes! You know me too well."

Her smile turns taut. You skim the pages as a distraction. One of the more recent entries etches itself into your head: _'October 5th, The storm keeps us within town. While the others scout the area, I stay behind with Lud. He tells me about his family as I dye his hair black—'_

"Your dad thought it'd be better if I talked to you instead." You glance up. "Only because he's scared he'll lose his temper."

Pursing your lips, you put your books on the counter. They're leather-bound, you think, old and shabby, and their covers have been constantly sewed back on. Nothing you can do about it. Time wears them down. "They're them," you say.

A deep exhale. "I figured as much."

"One's a bit late though." In good humour, you laugh. "So he's my coming-of-age present? Oh, Mama, you shouldn't have!"

She laughs back, a bit tight, but her eyes crinkle. "And after that...gone."

"Yes. But not forever. I'll be back after it's all done."

"And just how long is 'not forever' going to be?" Heart dropping, you open your mouth to speak. But she shakes her head. "That's not what I'm here for. Your father and I, we want to know what exactly's going to happen. We've come to connect a few things over the years, but..."

"You want to know the full story?"

She shrugs. "Or the gist of it, at least." Pause. "We can prepare better that way."

Between her words is something unspoken. You try not to guess what it is and tell her, "You could read what I wrote down. There's a lot of information, and not everything makes sense, but it's getting there."

You look at the books. They're thick—two are scrawled from front to back, and another is almost halfway through.

She steels her gaze in eager determination. "Think I'll finish them by the time your birthday comes?"

That's in three days. Plenty of time. "Sure, Mama, if you start now."

* * *

You sleep near the fireplace. Or, well, you try to. Too many thoughts run through your head, keeping you awake. You snuggle into your blanket to soothe them down.

Some rise the bile in your gut, like having to tell the others of your seer abilities. That flips your stomach. And all things considering, it's something you'll have to do someday, somewhen. Because you've never had to tell anyone before, you're understandably uneasy. But it doesn't change the fact that you'll have to take that first step.

Thinking about what's going to happen is worse. While it's one thing to speculate, it's another thing to know. You have no choice. No flexibility. There's no control when everything's set in stone.

And some things that are set in stone are things you never liked Seeing.

You watch the fire, letting the constant flickering ease your pressure. "My birthday," you mutter. That'll be the turning point. But you force yourself relax. Nothing bad ever happens on your birthday—no visions, no problems, no nothing. You're just a regular girl who's turning a year older. The gods grant that small grace at least. Why would they start denying you of it now?

When you finally close your eyes, you think of happy thoughts. Cooking; your father's cakes are the best, and you love it when he fills your plate with extra strawberries and icing. Gifts; your mother always makes you a hand-knit sweater—it doesn't snow where you live, but it does get cool and chilly. There's wild laughter, brimming joy. Everyone's happy. You are too.

So you smile. Warmth licks your toes and spreads up like a comforting embrace, safe and protective and keeping you from harm. Your breathing evens, your muscles relax. It's still. Calm. Peaceful. Free.

The crackling lulls your mind to rest, and soon, you find yourself drifting, drifting, drifting to sleep...

* * *

You jerked up on your bed in the middle of the night and gasped as your irises spun. Your panting grew erratic. Swirling images of people and places you didn't know burned snippets onto your eyes, stressing them under pressure with scene after scene after scene after scene after—

You bit your hand to stop yourself from screaming.

the king is dead!

vater, wake—

my prince, i see your mourning clothes are—

unfit

but it is, my lord—

no! i don't want—

west, west, please i need—

godspeed

but i'm not—

prepare! prepare! the coronation is near!

the _king_ will be—

the king is coming!

fanfare

hark ye, on this first day—

i'm scared

of the first month—

you'll be fine

of the year of—

you sure?

today, we see—

the crown

gunshots!

my lord! we must—

no!

we must—

no!

 _we must go!_

revenge—

i _swear_ on my father's—

the king!

the king!

long live the king!

As you snapped back to the present, you struggled to steady your breath. In and out, in and out. You were fine. You weren't there. You were fine. You weren't hurt. You were fine. You were at home. No king you knew was on his deathbed, and no king you knew was to be _murdered_.

Despite the warm night, your body shuddered. You thought of the coming spring, Monami, and new beginnings. Then of late winter, King Gilbert, and bleak tidings.

You didn't want to know which one would come first.

* * *

 **End note(s):** Jeanne = Jeanne D'Arc; or in English, Joan of Arc  
Deutschland = Germany


	5. Glow

**A/N:** Enjoy!

To the guest reviewer: Well, as I've always understood it, second-person is against the rules when it's interactive, meaning the whole [Y/N] self-insert or CYOA business is prohibited. This fic doesn't fall under those categories (this is me choosing to write an established, canon character's perspective in second-person because of weird stylistic reasons), so I think it's safe.

I don't know; I'm 95% sure that's the case, but the wording _is_ pretty unclear :/

Thanks for the concern and interest though! If it does turn out to be a problem, I'll do my best to fix it.

* * *

The floor, for all intents and purposes, isn't the worst place to sleep on, though it's sleeping on a _multitude of blankets while on the floor_ plus sleeping _near the fireplace despite being on the floor_ that doesn't make it half-bad. In fact, you've had times where you felt much more uncomfortable on your own bed.

But what's kind of irritating is how you need to clear it out in the morning. You've learned on the first day that if you leave it be, Kuma will claim it as his own and nap on it for the rest of the afternoon. And fur is itchy to sleep on. Really itchy.

Past that, your new housemates aren't much of a bother. Kuma's kind of a heavy sleeper and makes a lot of noise, but Lili makes up for it by being as unimposing as the walls; she even stays outside for most of her day. Lud, on the other hand... Lud's just there.

So in a sense, you've become a more patient woman.

...Well, a woman minus 24 hours. An almost woman.

It's going to be your birthday tomorrow! Yaaay!

Not.

You sigh, scrubbing the breakfast off of everyone's plates. As the seconds fly by, the feeling in your gut only grows stronger. Worse. You know it's the overthinking and concern that make you feel sick, but as much as you want to stop being so anxious, the practice is ingrained in your head. It's in your nature to worry. You're not going to start chopping down your thoughts anytime soon and turn your clouded mess of a brain into some carefree meadow.

But it'd be nice if—oh, you don't know—some of those issues could just vanish into thin air? Maybe?

Just as you've done with your timeline of visions, you've made a mental list of near-future problems that may or may not be resolved in the next little while:

 **1)** Lud, as broad as that is. Because even if you know he'll be fine by the end of his comatose condition, your mind likes to drift towards his circumstances. And his brother. Which leads to the second point.  
 **2)** ...Which is kind of a sore subject with a lot of holes that need to be patched, but it does need to be addressed: yes, there is no use in hiding the fact that you know Lud is Deutschland's youngest prince. Real name is Ludwig. Lili is his bodyguard. Kuma is too, kind of. So there. You admitted it in your head. He's next in line to his country's throne or something; you don't really know how politics work in Deutschland.  
 **3)** Normally, people who live far from the capital and haven't stepped out of a twenty mile radius from their houses wouldn't know that fact but hey, you're not normal. And you're definitely going to have trouble admitting that _out loud_.  
 **4)** You still don't know what's going to specifically happen to your parents on your birthday. In the most general of terms, "they'll be fine." That's not very assuring.  
 **5)** Lukas. That is all.

You rinse off the grime, placing the dishes to dry on a nearby blanket. Kuma's snoring still echoes through the house. Lud is still sleeping. Your parents are still at work. Lili is still at the kiln.

Time is ticking.

Meanwhile, you're still washing dishes.

What a simple life. You're going to miss this soon.

Eyeing the water slide off of the plates, you shake your head and decide to wash them again. You're going to hate it if you forget how the simple chores feel.

* * *

The forge near your house (a.k.a. your father's workplace) is old but functional, having fortunately never once broken down in inconvenience. You suppose that if—for whatever sarcastic reason—someone had the bright idea to isolate themselves from the rest of mankind and only had this house, some food, and some tools, they could potentially be self-sufficient for their entire lives.

By the entrance, you see Lili turned away from you, wielding a hot hammer. She swings it down, whacking something on the anvil. You wait until the banging quiets before you say, "Lili?"

She glances back. She smiles. "Miss Camille. Sorry, was I too loud?"

"Nope. Don't let me stop you. I couldn't even hear it from the house." Now that you're closer, you realize she's shaping a dagger. _Re_ shaping it, you should say. It looks bent. But with the hammer's constant pounding, it's beginning to straighten. That's a start of a good conversation, you guess. "What are you doing?"

Or, you know, you can insert a foot in your mouth. Because it apparently can't keep up with your brain.

She giggles, either because she can read your self-deprecation or because you're apparently ignorant to blacksmithing. Not that it matters; both are right. "I'm fixing my weapons. They have no use when they're in bad condition."

You look at what she has. Two short knives—one in one hand, and another on her belt. There are probably more hidden on her, but you're not going to pry. "Is there anything for Ludirk?"

A shake of the head. "We lost his in the forest, I fear."

"Ah."

Lili shrugs. "No matter. A provisional lance will be enough for the time being. Kuma is enough to scare threats away, most times."

"...Is that so."

This conversation thing is hard.

You wait for the sparks to disappear before trying again. "Is blacksmithing part of your merchant trade?"

She doesn't miss a beat. "Not necessarily. Though I do think it's good practice to know how your wares are made; it especially helps when appraising items." She sets the hammer down, pointing a gloved finger to her face. "A good merchant has a good eye for price."

"Right. Makes sense. Otherwise, business wouldn't stay afloat."

"Yes, striking and negotiating deals are important, but you always set the impression with the initial price."

"That's interesting," you say, grinning widely. Is this what others call 'common sense?' "Are there any other trade secrets you're willing to divulge?"

Lili laughs. "Who knows? Perhaps I'll tell you later."

Oh, you are _so_ definitely going to use this against her.

Honestly though, if you didn't know any better, you'd believe Lili was telling the truth when she said she was a merchant. She's pretty good at saying a bunch of things while still sharing very little. It's a trick you wish the gods had granted you. But alas. Not everyone can be that fortunate.

"I heard from your mother that your birthday is tomorrow," Lili continues. "How old are you turning?"

"Eighteen."

She's amused. "Eighteen! Older than me by three years." Pensive, she adds, "Though that means Ludirk is the same age as you; he turned eighteen this May."

You grin. Wrong. "Right."

She turns sheepish. "I'm afraid us three are bothering you at an important time then. I feel as if I have an obligation to do something, at the very least..." She pauses, then nods. "Yes, that's it. Miss Camille, I shall prepare you a gift."

You blink.

But before you can open your mouth, she says, "Yes, I do realize I do not have to. But I want to. There is a difference." You try your best not to gawk but it surely fails, because her lips flick upwards into a smile. "Consider it a repayment for what you and your family have done for us, will you not?"

"...Well." You cough. "It'd be rude to deny myself of a free gift, I guess?"

"I suppose it would be," Lili muses.

* * *

When your parents come back late in the afternoon, you've finished all your chores while Lili's finished hers. The house is all clean—notwithstanding the constant amount of fur Kuma sheds—and Lili's weapons are all forged, so the four of you (and one bear) have dinner and exchange stories.

Your parents' news is alarming, to say the least. "There was talk in town of Deutschland soldiers looking for their missing prince," your father tells the table. "I heard that Prince Ludwig is wanted for taking part in the death of the king."

You narrow your eyes.

On the other hand, Lili chokes on her food. Kuma looks up from his slab of meat. "Excuse me?" she says.

"The prince is missing and wanted. That's what I heard."

"Missing, I can believe; I heard the commotion then was grand. B-but wanted?" She's incredulous. "Prince _Ludwig_ , of all people?"

"I suppose it's hard to believe?" your mother asks.

"Hard? I find it impossible!" Her eyes are wild, bewildered and blazing. Kuma growls, as if in warning, and she takes a deep breath to calm herself down. "I apologize for my outburst, but Prince Ludwig—he is known for being fair and obedient, and adoring his older siblings to a fault. There is be no way he could be an accomplice to King Gilbert's assassination."

"It seems," your father says, "there are people who think otherwise."

She frowns. "The politics back home are worse than I've expected. It will be hard for us to return to the country any time soon."

He nods. "And your prince is not the only one who's missing. Someone called...'Lord Edenstern?'—is that his name?—is nowhere to be found either."

"Edelstein," she corrects. "The king's cousin." Her spoon taps the rim of the bowl incessantly. "Do you know if it was the father or the son?"

Your father shrugs. "I can't say I do."

"The Edelsteins are a family of great importance," she explains. "High nobles of the court, if you will. Powerful influence. If the late king's death and Lord Edelstein's kidnapping are interconnected, the implications that arise are... Well, this is worrisome. Pray tell, were the soldiers in town today?"

"No. But I think they'll be heading to Le Royaume soon enough. Some merchants said they passed by a few patrols in the towns west of here. They say that Prince Ludwig is with his personal guard, and a high bounty is placed on their heads." Your father takes a spoonful of soup. "Not that it helps us, since we don't know what they look like. Though I'm sure they'll be described once the soldiers come to the area."

She is quiet.

Without a word, you reach under the table to grab Lili's hand. She tenses, muscles taut as she grips her fingers around yours tightly. You let her nails dig into your skin.

"Once Ludirk wakes," she says, "we'd best be going to our family."

Your father nods. "That might be good. Come with me after dinner, Lili. And bring Kuma. There's still more you might want to hear."

* * *

At nightfall, Ludwig is still asleep. With your father keeping the other two in quiet conversation, you and your mother are free to tend to his injuries in silence, though it's not the only reason why the both of you are lucky to be in a room to yourselves.

"I finished reading your journals," your mother starts, voice soft as if it's hard to admit. In a sense, you're sure it is. They're filled with pretty heavy material. "It was very...informative, especially in light of the recent events."

You hum in agreement, removing the bandages on Ludwig's body. There's going to be a scar, you think, but it's otherwise healing nicely; shouldn't have an infection after all of this is done. Still, for added measure, you wipe it with some antiseptic. "But if I've pieced my information correctly, only Deutschland is affected to a great extent. Best case scenario, everything dies down in a few weeks. Worst case scenario, it's a nation-wide crisis with two fugitives on the run. There shouldn't be too much problems, unless something else pops up in the future."

"What concerns me," your mother says. "is why you'll be thrown into this entire mess."

"Honestly, I don't know why either."

She stares at you. "Isn't it painful? Knowing what the future holds and not being able to change it in any way?"

You look away. The steady rise and fall of the prince's chest is soothing to watch. "In the end, how I feel doesn't matter, Mama. There's nothing I can do about that. Whatever happens, happens."

"And all you can do is prepare," your mother finishes.

"Mm hm."

Even then, there are so many unknown variables that elude you: time, place, sometimes people. You can estimate all you want and still turn out to be wrong. It's going to be a headache, you realize, to have to be ready at all times, at all places, around everyone.

Heck, right now, Lud might even be eavesdropping on your conversation!

...Although that's a bit worrisome. As your mother turns away to rummage through her medicine, you plug his nose, cover his mouth, pray to whatever god is listening to you, and count to ten. He grumbles a little but otherwise stays put. You sigh in relief and let go, patting his arm in apology.

"Another thing, darling." You glance at your mother. Though her back's turned to you, you hear the grin in her tone. "There was someone called 'Lukas' that you mentioned in your journals..."

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

Oh no.

"B-before you get any strange ideas, Mama," you splutter, "I don't know who he is."

"But you will," she shoots back. "Tell me: is he good-looking?"

You want to hide in a hole. "Oh gods."

"Yes? Is that a yes?" She's the most excited she's been this week, eyes sparkling and hands together and smile showing her teeth. "He _is_ , isn't he? How nice! You can't lie to me now, my dear. It's any mother's pride for her daughter to get a fine man."

"Mama."

She giggles. "And it's any mother's hope that her future son takes care of her daughter properly. Hm, I think I read something, somewhere about the two of you sharing a bed...?"

You knew writing that in was a mistake. "Mama!"

"I'm teasing! Only teasing."

Pouting mockingly, you say, "I know." Then you think. "I should pack my things tonight. Clothes, food, maybe medicine too." You poke your patient's cheek. He lets out a slight snore. "This one has trouble following him wherever he goes."

"Ah, don't. You don't have to—pack, I mean. Your father and I already did it last night."

You frown. "Wait, what? Really?"

She winks back. "One last moment of parental guidance before our favourite child becomes a full-fledged lady."

You shake your head, biting back your laughter. You think you're going to cry. "Oh, Mama. You didn't have to. But thanks. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

For the rest of the time, both of you work in comfortable silence; it's the kind of silence you know you'll miss soon.

* * *

The winds are chillier than usual as you get ready to go to sleep, seeping into your house with icy frost. Kuma is downstairs with you tonight, resting on your lap to help warm up your shivering figure. You watch the fire flicker, listening to the clock tick closer to midnight.

"I hope Ludwig is okay," you whisper. All of the extra blankets you could find were dumped onto him, piling the bed with a multitude of layers. "It'd be bad if he catches a fever."

Kuma whines in agreement.

You pat its head. "Thanks for being here too, Kuma. My legs would've frozen otherwise. At least my gloves keep my hands okay, no?"

It twists its mouth into the closest way a bear could smile. Yours is a bit bitter. It kind of weighs you down.

Howls whistle from the outside. The wind, you realize belatedly. You yawn. Though the walls of your house make you safe, they also make you nervous. It's as if they hide you from things you need to know, to hear, to see; you have plenty you need to say.

And you wish you could.

Stroking its fur, you say, "It would be nice to have someone who can understand you. Does it feel bad, sometimes, Kuma? Not being able to tell people what you think, or how you feel? Not being able to voice out your own opinions?"

It growls.

"No? Really?" You close your eyes. "That's good. You're lucky. I'm a bit...jealous."

Your head droops in slumber, and you let the tiredness wash over you, mind buzzing into a calm state. Time passes, minute after minute, before Kuma jolts up, waking you with it.

Your eyes drift to the clock. Twenty past twelve. It hasn't even been an hour. "Kuma?" you mutter. "What's wrong?"

The bear snarls, a low rumble in its throat and saliva dripping from its teeth. You turn to see what it's looking at. You don't catch it at first—thoughts addled with sleep—but a faint blue light glows outside the window. It's obscured from the curtains, but you think it's about the size of your hand; it flits across the pane before vanishing into the night.

What was that?

You're inclined to think it's harmless, but Kuma's behaviour tells you otherwise.

"Should I check it out?" you ask. It shakes its head. "Dangerous?" Shrug. "Should I get someone?" Nod. "Lili." Another nod.

But as you get up, the front lock clicks.

Burglar?

Bandits?

...Deutsche soldiers?

Goosebumps rise. Kuma circles in front of you, paws flexing in preparation for whatever's to come. You ready yourself in a sprinting position, running calculations in your head on how fast you'll need to be to bound up the stars and get to safety.

The door opens.

Kuma leaps.

You run.

Before you know it, you're lying on your back, pressure on your throat as you hear Kuma whimpering somewhere to the side. Your head rings in pain, eyes shifting over to whomever's hovering above you. In the darkness, the light of the fireplace can only make out their expression.

And it's downright murderous.

"You," they say. A man's voice. "You don't know how long I've been looking for you."

His grip tightens. Your vision blurs.

It hurts. "L-let me...go," you rasp.

He leans in, mere inches away from your face. Hair falls over his eyes but his glare petrifies you in place.

You need to breathe.

"You're the Oracle," he hisses. "And you're _dead_."

* * *

 **End note(s):** Le Royaume = short for 'Le Royaume des Francs' or the Kingdom of the Francs; because France in French is France


End file.
